Hanging by a Moment
by Faye Dartmouth
Summary: Bad luck follows the boys on Dean's coveted night off.


Title: Hanging by a Moment

Rating: PG-13, mostly gen (mild Dean/OFC but it's not relevant, Sam)

Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Set late season two. Mostly gratuitous limpness.

A/N 2: This one goes out to Brenna who was having a crappy week. She asked for it, so the bunny is not my fault. I did very little medical research on this one, so the boys may be overlooking some really high-risk complications, but I don't want them in the hospital in EVERY fic, right? Much thanks to sendintheclowns for being there while I wrote it, and to Tyranusfan, who humors me greatly by beta'ing.

-o-

**Hanging by a Moment**

"Just one night, Sammy," Dean said. "Just one night."

Sam, unamused and more than a little bored, just stared at him wondering how his brother could actually be serious.

The last hunt had been a disaster start to finish. It had started simply enough--a pretty clear-cut haunting, a series ritualistic murders that had sprung up when an old southern plantation had been sold and subdivided. People had started showing up maimed and killed on the property.

"I think we've already overstayed our welcome," Sam replied with a muffled snort. He fiddled with a French fry on his plate and hoped Dean would get the hint.

"Dude, it was one incident," Dean said.

This time Sam's snort wasn't muffled. Dean certainly did have a way of putting things lightly. "You realize she almost filed a restraining order against you, don't you?"

"The old lady was insane," Dean protested.

And Dean was such a gentleman. "You insulted her family."

Dean deadpanned back at him. "Her grandfather's spirit was an angry spirit!"

"It didn't mean he was a bad man!" Sam scoffed back, his frustrations rising. If Dean could be any more oblivious, it might actually be funny. Self-conscious of anyone who might overhear, he dropped his voice. "Besides, you told her it's amazing anything good came out of the South at all in the thirties."

Dean rolled his eyes. "How was I supposed to know she was born then?"

"Look, Dean, this just isn't a smart idea," Sam said, shaking his head plaintively. "We nearly got arrested."

"It was a misunderstanding."

"We were in a graveyard at midnight with shovels," Sam said. "I'm pretty sure they've got reason to doubt us."

"We got the guy, didn't we?"

"On the second try!" Sam hissed back.

"So he had a twin brother," Dean assented, perturbed.

Sam clenched his teeth, trying to pull back his emotions. Dean had an answer for everything, without fail. He'd do anything or say anything to get his way. Most of the time it was just annoying, this time it could have real repercussions that Sam didn't want to risk. "So why would we stay? We only have stuff to lose in this town," Sam finally reasoned.

Dean's face was blank for a second, and Sam could see his brother contemplating his next move. Dean wasn't the type to give up, Sam was certain of that much he just wasn't sure what persuasive tactic Dean would employ.

It was only a second before Dean's eyes went wide and the corners of his mouth fell, tugging slightly downward.

Sam just stared, trying to figure out what on earth his brother was doing.

Dean maintained the eye contact, a small line creasing his forehead, and finally Sam got it.

His brother was trying to puppy dog him into submission.

Sam might have laughed were it not for the fact that Dean was clearly trying here. Dean truly had no limits, and Sam's incredulity now knew no bounds. "You seriously want to risk our futures for a one night stand?"

"I'm asking for _one night_," Dean stressed. "Come on, man. With all the crap we've been doing, we deserve a break."

True, but then again, that was _always _true. Sam chewed the inside of his lip thoughtfully.

His brother was pretty conscientious when it came to making sure Sam's social life was not completely lacking (which is what Sam would have preferred nine times out of ten). And sometimes sacrifice wasn't just jumping in front of angry spirits. Sometimes it was just letting his brother get his way, no matter how stupid it may be.

Dean wasn't so reckless as to endanger either of them, not even when pretty girls and beer was involved.

They could spare a night.

He sighed. "Fine," he relented.

Instantly, Dean's smile returned and he perked up, scooting out of the bench seat. "Great," he said. "I'll see you back at the motel."

Sam gaped a little. "You're going? Just like that?" No thank-yous or goodbyes or you-sure-you'll-be-okays. Not even ten bucks for his part of dinner?

Dean paused, looking back down at Sam a little confused. "Yeah, isn't that the point?"

Sam shut his mouth purposefully. "Yeah," he replied. It didn't matter anyway. This was about what _Dean_ needed. "Just don't get arrested for trespassing or anything because if you do, I'm so not bailing you out."

Dean smirked triumphantly. "Not all types of bondage are bad, little brother."

With a huff and a roll of his eyes, Sam felt himself relent. "Just don't tell me the details, okay?"

With a grin, Dean cocked his head proudly, turned on his heel, and was out the door.

Still sitting at the booth, Sam just shook his head. "He's unbelievable," he muttered.

He polished off the remnants of his dinner before plunking down a twenty, nodding politely to the waitress, and heading out the door.

-o-

Heather Blind was tall, blonde, and loose, which was what really mattered. Sure, she was a college student, yes, she had grown up here, and true, she lived in a quaint studio apartment on the edge of town.

She'd been more than a little happy to see him, but she was the refined type, and she invited him in for a drink while they both anticipated what was to come.

Even Sam would have liked this girl, he was pretty sure. She was collegial, which was a plus. She'd been a student of the history professor they'd milked for information. Besides that, she had books. Lots of them, which seemed to be a Sam turn-on.

Dean perused them aimlessly while nursing his beer, while she fiddled with some sandwiches in the kitchen. Dean didn't care if he'd just eaten. There were sacrifices he needed to make sometimes.

"So you're, uh, a history major, right?" he asked, hoping like hell he'd remembered correctly.

"Yeah," she called out over the sound of rustling in the kitchen. "Professor Gilbert's even my advisor. He said you two were grad students working on your thesis?"

"Uh, yeah," Dean agreed, trying vaguely to remember their hastily made cover stories, eyeing the volumes of historical accounts that lined her bookshelves.

"Well I can certainly understand the appeal," she said, her voice closer now.

Dean turned to find her walking toward him, two sandwiches on plates. She put them on the coffee table, but all Dean was looking at was the lean curves of her body. "Yeah, why's that?" he asked.

"Well the Weiland place is like the most fascinating old plantation around," she said, sauntering over to him.

"Yeah, we learned all about the Weiland murder," Dean said, leaning in toward her. "Gruesome stuff."

She snorted a little. "That's not even the half of it."

Dean let his hand draw near to her, lingering in her hair. "Yeah? And how's that?"

She grinned, clearly relishing the touch. "Well, the Weiland brothers were pretty controversial. Modern day Cain and Abel of sorts."

Dean barely heard her, let his lips to her neck, nuzzling gently.

She inhaled, giggling a little before she continued. "One brother was good, and the other was supposedly bad."

"Yeah, Gregor was quite the self-righteous crusader," Dean murmured in her ear.

"Which was why his brother killed him," she breathed back. "It was Abraham who was the psycho."

Dean moaned a little into her, letting his hands smooth up and down her torso.

Her breathing hitched a little, and she turned deeper into him. "Abraham was a vigilante. Killed people who he thought deserved to die. He and his posse, they were close, tight--what Abraham did, they all did. They strung up fifteen people before Abraham died and the others were arrested."

Something triggered in Dean's brain. Most of the victims had been hanged--Dean had just assumed that since Gregor died by hanging... Ghosts often re-enact their own deaths, after all. But _both _brothers were buried there, both brothers could have been to blame. He pulled away, surprised, his mind processing this new information. "Wait, Abraham strung people up?"

She blinked at him. "Uh, yeah," she stammered.

Dean's brow creased in concern. Something was _not_ right about this. He had thought they'd known everything, been on top of the case. But this--why were they just learning about this _after_ the fact? "Abraham was a murderer?"

Confused, she smiled a little. "Yeah, he even killed his little brother. The story is that Gregor haunts the place trying to keep new people from coming in. He doesn't want them to cross Abraham's path because even in death Abraham would string up anyone who set foot on the place."

Dean turned away, taking to pacing. The attacks had been twofold. People who lived on the property had been hanged, found strung up in the rafters of the barn. People who visited had just been hurt--minor injuries that had been enough to keep them from coming back.

And they had burned both bodies, he remembered with a sigh. Both Weiland brothers would be nothing more than ash in a grave.

"You okay?" Heather asked, moving toward him, a hand on his arm.

He turned back to her, and she smiled up at him. "That's just an awful story, sweetheart," he said smoothly, leaning back in to kiss her on the lips.

She responded to the kiss, pushing her lips into his. When they broke away, she licked her lips and grinned. "The weirdest part is," she whispered, leaning in to nip his ear. "Is that the entire posse was buried on the Weiland plot. They say it was arranged so that anyone who attacked Abraham would have the rest of the guys to deal with. Vindictive even in death."

And that was enough to stop any thoughts of sexual conquest he may have had. _Vindictive even in death_ did not sound altogether promising, especially when he'd torched their leader.

She grinned a little. "Don't worry though. The posse only roamed the east side of the river. Small territory. So we're totally safe over here."

Which was good for him, but bad for Sam. Sam who was alone in the motel room, completely unaware, situated right in the heart of the east side of the city. He stepped away, nearly forgetting Heather altogether.

Heather, for her part, looked more hurt than surprised this time. "Is everything okay?" she asked. "I mean, I thought--"

"No, everything's fine," Dean replied quickly, grabbing his coat off the couch. "This is just..." _Bad, really, really bad_. "...new information. I should really get back to Sam because this could change our paper."

The lie was ludicrous, and Heather could see it. "You're going to go work on your _paper_?" she asked, her incredulity evident.

He paused to look at her, really look at her, the tan skin, sun-streaked blonde hair. Her lacy spaghetti strap shirt hung low on her chest, and fit tightly to her curves, showing a sliver of skin between her shirt and low-rise jeans.

She looked _good_ and she was so _willing_ and the story she was spinning really _could _just be legend. There was no evidence of any other kind of continued supernatural activity, not that they'd necessarily be able to separate Gregor's activity from anybody else's.

"Can I just make a quick phone call?" he asked, hoping to find the best way out. If Sam was fine and dandy, he could just tell the kid to get to safety, or at least be watchful. Then he could enjoy his time with Heather.

If Sam wasn't fine...

Well, that wasn't an option.

Heather just stared at him, which Dean took as a _yes_.

He ducked into the hallway, out of Heather's critical gaze, pulling his cell phone out and bringing up Sam's number.

His stomach tight, he put the phone to his ear, trying to convince himself he was just being paranoid. _Too many years on the job_, he told himself ruefully.

One ring, two rings...

"Come on, Sammy," he muttered. "Pick up."

...three rings, four...

Sam could be busy. Sam could be asleep for all he knew. It might take him a minute. The kid could sleep pretty heavy sometimes.

...five rings, six rings...

"Hi, this is Sam. I can't answer the phone right now, but please leave--"

Dean ended the call, cursing softly.

This was not good.

Moving through the living room again, he pocketed the phone, and headed toward the door. "I've got to go," he said, trying to sound a little apologetic for Heather's sake, even though he didn't actually care if she believed him or not.

"I don't understand," she said. "I mean, you didn't even eat your sandwich."

"It's not you," he assured her. "It's me. Work before everything. I'll call you, okay?"

He didn't wait for her answer as he closed the door behind him. He needed to get back. Back to Sam, who better have one _hell_ of a good reason for not answering his phone.

-o-

Nights alone were never one of Sam's favorite things. They reminded him of unhappier times. Sam had spent a decent amount of time alone as a child, at least when Dean became a teenager and started taking a more active role in hunts. They used to be left behind together, but by the age of nine, he was used to spending some nights, locked and alone in a foreign motel room.

The rooms had never seemed so creepy before that. He'd never noticed the little nighttime noises when Dean had stayed with him. He'd always been able to feel safe in Dean's confidence, safe with Dean's steadiness with the gun, safe with Dean's easy joking.

His nights alone were long and sleepless, but he didn't dare tell his family that. Dean would just feel guilty, and Dad would just think he was weak.

Going away to college was supposed to be his freedom, but all it brought him was more lonely nights. His roommate bailed on him, moved in with his girlfriend by October, and even though the floor was full of guys, Sam always felt alone. He was torn between leaving his door open, just to hear the life around him, and keeping it closed to block out any potential threat.

Mostly, he just didn't sleep. He just stayed awake and stared at the ceiling, feeling alone, feeling small, wondering if Dean was okay, if Dean forgave him, if he'd ever see his brother again.

A lot had changed since then, and in the time since Jess had died, he'd clung to Dean in more ways than his macho ego would let him admit. He could handle a lot of things on his own, but being alone at night was never something he was good at. He didn't let Dean know, though, because usually it wasn't a big deal. The occasional one-night stand was inevitable, and Sam merely handled those nights with lots of coffee and endless net surfing.

Sighing, Sam looked away from the computer screen, his eyes already aching from the strain of staring at the screen. He used to check his email, catch up with people, but he'd stopped doing that ever since their dad had died. He just didn't know what to tell them, not anymore. He sometimes heard from Rebecca, a little from Sarah, but sometimes he just didn't want to remember all the people he'd left behind.

He shifted in his seat, wishing the motel had sprung for slightly nicer furniture. The chair was surely designed for someone half his size. He had to stoop his back like a hunchback just to see the screen, and his knees knocked against the bottom of the table.

"At least the discomfort will keep me awake," he muttered, turning his attention back to the laptop.

And that was the key, really, to just keep himself awake and occupied until Dean got back and Dean could gloat, Sam could brood, and they'd go on their merry way.

Just one night.

He could give Dean that. He'd done it before, and he'd do it again.

Opening his favorites, he perused them, looking for something interesting.

Supernatural sites aplenty. News sites, conspiracy theories, the works.

Great, just in case he wanted to spend more time _working_.

He went to Google and poised his fingers to type. He used to be okay at entertaining himself with normal things. He just wasn't sure when he'd lost all ability to actually enjoy himself.

The gaming site wasn't his first choice, but he'd played some in college. A little interactive bloodshed could never be a bad thing to pass the night. He could even justify it as honing his tracking and marksmanship skills.

The site was loading when Sam felt the hair rise up on his skin. He rubbed his arms absently before he realized it was the middle of summer.

Pausing, he looked around, wondering if the air conditioner was on the fritz.

Before he could up to investigate, the lights flickers and his computer screen blinked in and out.

"What the...," Sam murmured.

His instincts were flying wild. Something was wrong. Something was off. This was all typical stuff for spiritual presence, but why would there be a spirit here?

Then again, at this point it didn't really matter why, just _what_, and Sam was moving for the weapons as fast as he could.

He'd managed to get the shotgun out when he saw the first flash of movement.

There was barely time to check that it was loaded when the spirit came at him. Without hesitating, Sam brought the gun up and fired, more than a little relieved when the thing dissipated mere inches in front of him.

A stifled breath escaped between his lips and he felt his heart pounding in the silence as his mind reeled, desperately trying to piece together what had just happened. Whatever it was, the rock salt wouldn't be a permanent fix. He probably needed to--

There, to his left, a flash. He fired without thinking before another materialized to his right.

He fumbled to reload, glancing up as it approached him.

He didn't recognize it, not that he expected to, but its old face was gnarled and twisted in a grimace as it charged him.

He wasn't fast enough, so he swung the gun outward, letting the metal make contact. The ghost hissed and disappeared.

But another one came in its wake. Sam lashed out at it too, but another one charged from his other side.

They were everywhere. It was an entire _group _of spirits. Why the hell hadn't they seen these guys in the week they'd stayed here? There hadn't been a sign, not a hint, no history--

He hit the ground, hoping to duck their blows. Spirits could be fast, but they weren't exactly up-to-speed with human reasoning.

That still didn't solve the problem though. Throwing iron around would only get him so far and there was a freakin' _army_ of ghosts in his motel room, seemingly hell-bent on doing some kind of harm to him.

His crawl to the door was thwarted by a rough hand in his hair. _Damn_. Apparently they'd caught on.

Sam flung the gun upwards and the grip vanished, only to be replaced by a strong blow across his chin.

He saw stars and by the time his senses returned to him, something kicked him in the stomach.

Swinging wildly, he tried to take out as many as he could, and he wished like hell that he was carrying some salt on him.

There were too many, though, and another kick landed to his chest and a fist raked across his face.

It was hard to see and his vision was hazy, dimmed with blood, but as he looked up, he could see the swirl of spirits surrounding him. Old, tattered clothes, and angry, scarred faces.

The blows continued and Sam had no recourse. He tried to curl into himself, but it didn't help. The spirits could get to places where humans could not, and Sam felt his awareness fading.

Then he felt himself being pulled upward, held by arms that felt disturbingly real. A single face approached him, sneering. "You killed what was ours, boy," it said, backhanding Sam hard across the face.

This had to be a case of mistaken identity, but for the life of him, Sam couldn't figure out how he'd gotten into this. He couldn't do much of anything at that point except try to stay awake, and even that was taking its toll at the moment.

"He was just doing what the law ought to do, boy," the spirit seethed. "They already killed him once, and you go and do it again."

Sam breathed heavily, confused. They knew they were dead. They weren't avenging someone's death...they were avenging someone's trip to the other side.

But that was impossible, wasn't it?

Sam didn't have time to think about it as another punch landed hard against his eye, and another one plowed into his gut. All he knew was pain, real and vast and all-encompassing, and the distant sensation that they were carrying him out.

-o-

This was ridiculous.

Dean told himself that yet again, hoping this time he'd believe it.

He should have stayed with Heather, had some fun, not obsessed like a freakin' mother hen over his little brother.

It was just a _story_.

A story they should have known about.

Dean grit his teeth, and pressed harder on the gas.

Sam would be okay. Sam had to be okay. They'd go and salt and burn the rest of the posse and forget that any of this ever happened. He'd listen to Sam and put this town in the rearview mirror faster than he could blink.

He was so focused that he nearly missed the motel, and his tires squealed as he turned into the lot. He didn't bother to park neatly, just slammed the car into park, and got out, racing to the door.

Even before he got there, he knew he was too late.

The door was ajar, light creeping out, and when Dean kicked it all the way open, looking around, breathless and desperate, there was no one there.

"Sam!" he called, pushing open the bathroom door, storming through the room.

Nothing.

The laptop was abandoned on the table. The bag of weapons was strewn across the bed where Sam had apparently deposited it.

Dean tried to breathe, tried to think, but the disbelief was paralyzing.

They had his brother.

-o-

The night air reinvigorated his senses, and he tried to struggle. Wherever they were going, it couldn't be good. But there were too many, and they were too strong, and the metaphysics of ghosts had never amazed him more. The grip on him was solid, the blows palpable, but whenever he lashed out, his flesh met nothing but air. He wished he still had the shotgun, couldn't even remember when he'd lost it, but it wouldn't have made a difference.

Nothing would make a difference.

They were going to kill him.

He'd been touched by spirits before, so their cold, lifeless grip didn't really bother him all _that_ much. Nor did their distorted faces or unnatural glowing. But he'd never been _moved _by one before, and it was oddly akin to floating, they were moving so fast.

The scenery sped by, faster than a car could move them, and more disorienting. He could barely focus, barely see anything at all, barely even breathe. His ears rang, his head throbbed, and his entire body felt cold from the hands all over his body.

He swallowed against nausea. _Dean_, he thought suddenly. Where was Dean?

He didn't know whether to be grateful or remorseful. Remorseful that his brother wasn't here to save him, grateful that Dean wouldn't die with him.

Then it all stopped, with an abruptness that left Sam blank.

He breathed in and out, trying to regain himself.

Grass, he realized, he was lying on grass.

He managed to push his head up just in time to see the spirits circle around him, glowing torches in their hands.

This seemed familiar.

Then recognition came to him. The Weiland property. They'd dragged him back to the Weiland property. They had deposited him on the edge of the clearing, near the line of ancient sycamore trees that towered overhead.

They'd missed something, or they'd stirred something bigger up. Clearly this hunt wasn't over, and Sam was about to be the next victim.

The face approached him, and three more surrounded him. Two lifted him while the face bent down to look at him. "You ready to die, boy?"

"No," Sam breathed, shaking his head. "I didn't--"

The face backed away, glancing around at the circle of spirits. "We have tried you and found you guilty of the murder of Abraham Weiland."

Abraham Weiland? The brother? They'd burned him by accident--

The face looked back at him, eyes cold. "And we sentence you to hanging until death."

-o-

If Dean had been driving fast before, now he was driving with the recklessness of a desperate man, unhindered by reason, completely devoid of worry about something as petty as speeding tickets or traffic violations.

He'd hate to be the cop that got in his way, not when Sam's _life_ was at stake.

The trees flew by, receding into nothingness. He couldn't even be sure the Weiland place was the right place, but it was all he had. All the corpses were buried there, all the activity had happened there. Surely they'd take Sam back to finish it just like they had when they were alive.

Dean swallowed tightly. He couldn't let them finish Sam. He couldn't let Sam die because of some wayward salt and burn.

He wouldn't fail. He didn't know how.

He gave no pretense of secrecy as the car screeched to a halt in the driveway of the Weiland property. It was wide and vast and, since the string of accidents, mostly deserted except a little old lady who was hard of hearing anyway.

Hopping out of the car, he slammed his door shut, fumbling the trunk open.

Salt--lots of it--and iron. He'd have to grab Sam get them both in a ring of salt and wait it out till morning. If these guys weren't bound to place, they'd surely be bound to time, and spirits hated daylight like he hated spirits.

They'd just wait it out, then figure out how to burn an entire posse.

His fingers were numb, though, as he pocketed his extra supplies. The revolver felt heavy in his jeans, the shotgun warm in his hands.

He tried to calm himself, to take a deep, steadying breath. But nothing could assuage the fear in his stomach, the overwhelming sense of foreboding, the feeling of teetering a little too close to the edge. The same feeling he always felt when he thought his brother's life might be in danger.

It didn't matter. All that mattered was Sam.

-o-

Sam's instincts screamed to fight, to move, to do _something_ but he barely managed to struggle at all when the figure behind him looped a noose around his neck and tightened it securely.

Sam swallowed reflexively, hands grasping at the rope that itched about his neck.

Before he had a chance to do anything else, he was being pulled, dragged by the rope, and he stumbled obediently after it, in a desperate attempt to keep breathing.

He staggered to a stop, dropping to his knees, his fingers digging at his neck. He just needed to get it loose, get it off, get out of here, _now_--

Even as he thought it, he knew he'd never make it.

Before he could even catch his breath, he felt himself ripped from the ground, pulled higher and higher until his legs could find no purchase.

His vision tunneled, barely seeing the lighted circle around him. All he knew was the pressure on his neck, the encompassing, debilitating pressure, and the burning in his lungs as he failed to breathe.

His legs thrashed, his hands clawed, his mind worked.

Things were dimming, and Sam reeled in the horror of how his brother would find him in the morning.

It wasn't fair, it wasn't right. They didn't get this far, they didn't come this far to die like this. He couldn't. Not without Dean. Not to leave Dean alone. He had to fight. He had to...he had to...

Sam didn't know what he had to do; he just knew he had to breathe, and that he couldn't, that he wouldn't, that it was over. It didn't matter now, not anymore.

And the darkness took him.

-o-

Dean didn't know enough about this case, didn't know where they would have really taken his brother, but his best bet was the graveyard. It was the scene of the "crime," he supposed, where they had dug up Abraham by mistake.

By mistake.

This was nothing more than a _mistake_.

His heart pounded in his ears as his feet fell heavily on the ground. He had to move, faster, faster, moving across the estate with an innate sense of direction. Just over the hill, left of the barn, then he'd find Sam. Sam would be there. He had to be.

As he crested the hill, his search came to an abrupt end.

It was hard to miss. There was a glowing circle, the spirits no doubt, brandishing torches and antiquated rifles, chanting and cheering, all watching something in the middle of their circle.

Something hanging from the end of a rope which was thrown over the lowest branch of the middle tree of the row of sycamores.

Something that looked an awful lot like a 6'4'', moppy-haired, pain-in-the-ass little brother.

Something that was no longer moving, just swaying slightly, back and forth, legs just two feet above the ground.

_Oh, God, no_.

Dean's breath caught in his throat, his mind froze. Sam.

There was a victorious whooping from the circle, cheers and jeers that were unmistakable, right before they began to fade.

Within seconds, the noise had faded to stillness, and the spirits were gone, leaving a pervasive quiet in their wake.

Dean's mind struggled to comprehend. Why would they leave? They would only leave if their business was...

Dean felt his stomach turn and he began to run.

"Sam!" he screamed, charging down the hill at a speed he didn't know he was capable of. "Sammy, hold on!"

They would only leave if their business was done, Dean tried not to think. They would only leave when Sam was dead. Sam was dead.

His mind rebelled against it, clearing the distance between himself and his brother as fast as he could.

It couldn't be real. This couldn't be real. This hadn't happened. This wasn't Sam, this wasn't anything, just a dream--

But as he skidded to a halt in front of his brother, nearly falling into him, his hands on his brother's legs, stomach, and it was so _real_.

"Sammy!"

He shoved Sam up, looking up into his face, stomach turning at the mottled and distorted features. Sam's long arms swayed limply, hitting Dean's face, marring his view of his brother.

"Come on," he muttered, hoping for some kind of response, some kind of anything.

He needed to get Sam down. He needed to get Sam down _now_ but, damn it, it wasn't tall enough.

He needed something, something...he tore his eyes away from his brother and scanned the grounds, looking for anything to give him a boost.

There, like a blessing, a ladder. Dean remembered vaguely that the entire grounds was undergoing renovation, or had been, until the deaths had started up. People had literally abandoned stuff midway through, so he could only guess the groundskeeper hadn't picked up after himself in the process.

The ladder would work, it would work wonderfully, but it was leaned up against the side of the barn, some thirty feet away.

He looked up at his brother again, wincing at the lifelessness of Sam's features.

Sam didn't have that much time.

But he couldn't _leave_ Sam there, leave him _hanging_.

But there was no other way to get Sam down. And at this point, Sam was already dead.

He swallowed bile, and gently released his brother, trying not to think about the rope constricting his brother's airway. Trying not to think about neck injury, a broken windpipe, spinal damage.

He couldn't move fast enough, sprinting over the green, to where the ladder lay propped against the side of the barn. The metal slipped in his hands, feeling rough and cold in his grip.

Glancing up, he saw Sam still hanging, a darkened silhouette against the line of trees.

Going back was harder, awkward with the device, but Dean didn't slow, didn't dare slow down. He felt the ladder banging painfully into him, bruising his legs and torso, even his head, but it was nothing compared to the simple fact that Sam wasn't breathing.

Dean had to fix that, had to fix it now, had to fix it in anyway possible. He had never failed his brother yet, and he didn't want to start now. Not after all his promises, not after _as long as I'm around, nothing bad is going to happen to you_, not after _I'm going to save you_.

Not ever.

Sam was still swaying slightly by the time Dean finally got back to him. Dean's fingers were numb as he opened the ladder, positioning it by his brother's side.

In his haste to climb it, he slipped, sending his leg through the opening and barely catching himself before his chin smacked hard into the metal. He recovered quickly, though, scrambling up it until he was eye level with Sam.

"It's okay," he assured Sam, but Sam didn't twitch, didn't move.

Dean forced himself to swallow, grappling at his pant leg to find the blade tucked up under it. He was sloppy getting it out, nearly slicing up his leg, but it didn't even faze him.

He pulled his brother up and against him, balancing Sam awkwardly on top of him in an effort to relieve the pressure from Sam's neck. Sam's body wasn't cooperative, though, loose and heavy against Dean, almost causing him to lose his balance.

He held on though, if nothing else from sheer determination.

Barely stable, Dean raised the knife to the rope, sawing at it with swift, strong movements. The coarse rope began to give, ever so slightly, fraying with the pressure.

"Come on, come on," Dean muttered, trying not to notice the encompassing stillness of Sam's body.

His wrist hurt with the frantic movements, but he ignored it, ignored everything, and kept his eyes trained on the rope.

A strand snapped, and Sam's body jolted a little, and Dean tightened his grip and picked up his pace.

"Almost there..."

The rope snapped entirely, releasing Sam, and Dean nearly fell off the ladder as he tried to compensate for Sam's weight. He grunted, struggling with Sam's body, determined not to let Sam hit the ground. Sam didn't need any other injuries at this point.

Bracing himself, Dean began down, clutching his brother tightly to his chest. _It's been too long_.

He skipped the bottom rung and tumbled to the ground, Sam landing heavily on top of him. Hands shaking, he fumbled for the noose at Sam's neck. "It's okay," he breathed. "I've gotcha now."

Sam was clearly too far gone to hear it, and Dean clenched his jaw hard to keep himself in check. Sam needed him, needed him now more than ever, and he was running out of time.

With the noose removed, he lowered Sam to the ground, taking in the dark abrasions on Sam's neck and the bruises on his face. It was impossible to tell how much was from the hanging and how much Sam had suffered before it.

But Sam wasn't breathing. Sam wasn't _breathing_. Sam was dead, Sam was dead, Sam--

Dean forced his mind into submission. He needed to focus, he needed to--

CPR.

He knew CPR.

He'd performed it before.

He could do this.

Shaking, he tilted Sam's head, pinching off his nose. Bending over, he offered his brother two breaths, willing his brother's chest to rise.

If Sam's throat had swelled shut, if his trachea had been deviated--then there would be nothing left to do, it'd be over.

He breathed hard, tasting blood and sweat and cold, and finally Sam's chest moved with his breath.

"Good boy," he muttered, wiping his nose before moving to Sam's chest.

He hesitated, only for a moment, before steeling himself. It took everything inside of him to push hard and even on Sam's chest, one, two, three...

Sam's body was pliant, moving with Dean's vigor, his head lolling with the constant push, push, push.

His consciousness divided, half anchored in the moment with Sam, counting, pacing, checking, breathing. The other half disconnected, existed in a panicked state of denial somewhere above them both.

He was losing Sam. All of his efforts, all of his work, was in vain, and, just like that, he was going to lose his brother.

Sam was nothing but a puppet under Dean's hands, bobbing and moving as Dean directed his body to bob and move. How many times had he wanted it like this? Wanted Sam compliant and easy and obedient?

Not that Sam was truly obedient. Because the one thing Dean wanted was for Sam to breathe, and it was the one thing that Sam wouldn't do right now.

This wasn't the Demon though, so Sam couldn't die. Sam couldn't. The Demon was the only thing that was a _true_ match for the Winchester brothers, wasn't it? Dying in some run-of-the-mill haunting just wasn't their style.

He was crying, sobbing, but he couldn't feel it, couldn't stop it. All he could do was pump Sam's chest, breathe for him, pump, breathe, pump, breathe...

Then, suddenly, Sam jerked. It was a slight movement, followed by a string of coughing as Sam's body arched a little off the ground, searching for air.

Dean leaned back, startled, staring. He gaped, feeling numb, body and soul.

Sam was sucking and choking on air, painful, rasping breaths.

Sam was alive.

"Sam," he heard himself say, a second before he remember how to move.

He swooped down, lifting his brother and leaning Sam against his chest in an effort to assuage Sam's breathing. If the kid saw this, Dean would never live it down--a real life _hug_ from the stoic Dean Winchester. Not that it mattered, Sam wasn't exactly with it, and if he asked later, Dean would always say it was first aid.

"Easy, little brother," he soothed, whispering it into Sam's hair. "Just breathe."

Sam labored to do just that, his chest rising and falling in uneven, stuttering hitches.

"You're okay. You're okay."

If Sam heard him, he didn't respond. It seemed to take all of Sam's effort just to force the air through his body. Dean knew there could be residual problems, that he needed to check Sam out for neck injuries, and that Sam's neck could still swell closed, thus voiding all his hard work with CPR.

"Got to calm down," he said, not sure if he was really talking to Sam or himself. "Take it easy."

Sam flailed a little, his legs moving and his hands gripping the sides of Dean's jeans.

He held his brother tight, undaunted, willing his brother's body to regulate. He murmured reassurance in Sam's ears, thanking anything and everything he could think of for his brother's safety.

They would be okay, he knew. Despite all the risks of complications, they'd be okay. He'd brought Sam back, and nothing would dare to take him again.

Dean would make sure of it.

They sat there, not speaking, until Sam's breathing even out, falling in tandem with Dean's own.

-o-

It was like breathing through gauze, thick and unrelentingly difficult.

His throat felt scratchy and tight and every breath burned as it came out of him.

He couldn't move, not really, and it was about everything he had just to stay awake.

For a brief moment, his logical mind worked, and he realized something must have happened. _Something_ was always happening to them, landing them in situations like this, and if Sam just thought a little harder, he was pretty sure he could remember this one.

He remembered the haunt--in all its screwed-up glory. He remembered digging two graves, feeling muddy and tired and annoyed. And he remembered a girl and a lonely motel room and--

He startled slightly, jerking in Dean's arms.

The spirits. They'd attacked him. Dragged him out of his room and tried to hang him.

Well, it seemed like they'd been pretty successful on that part if the pain in his throat and the scared lilt to Dean's voice were any indication.

But how had Dean known? And how was his brother keeping it together? For as macho as Dean tended to be, Sam knew that nothing unnerved his normally smooth older brother more than seeing his little brother in peril.

He struggled again, trying to push himself up.

"Sam, stop," his brother said, a little sharply.

Sam would not be deterred.

"Sam, just stop," his brother insisted again. "You just need to take it easy, okay? Just for a little bit?"

There was probably some logic to that statement, but Sam didn't really care at that point. He just wanted to get a good long look at his brother and figure out what had happened.

Sam's squirming finally paid off and he managed to pull himself to a seated position, mostly unassisted, looking at his brother. The position hurt, though, exacerbating an intense pain that radiated from his ribs and straining his breathing even more. "Dean," he attempted to wheeze, but he was pretty sure all that came out was a garbled sound.

"Sam, lay back down before you pass out," Dean chided.

Dean sounded terrified, so terrified that Sam actually felt guilty for ignoring his brother's warnings. But he had to know, had to figure this out. "Dean," he tried again, making marginally more success this time. "How?"

Dean didn't seem to understand him, and instead of answering, just glowered at him. "You shouldn't be talking," he said, reaching his hands out to inspect Sam's throat. "They sure did a number on you."

Dean's hands barely touched him, but his throat constricted from the pain of contact, and Sam winced. He would not, however, be dissuaded. "How?"

Dean finally seemed to be listening to him and eyed him with a critical glare. "How did I know?" he surmised.

Sam opted to nod his answer.

"Turns out our little history major knew more than she let on," Dean commented lightly, trying to grin. It failed, though, and his head dropped. "I never should have left you."

There it was. There was the guilt that Sam desperately wanted to avoid. There was no way this was Dean's fault and with the burden Dean was already carrying, Sam didn't want to add something else on top of it.

He shook his head vehemently and tried to speak but ended up coughing instead.

"Geez, Sam," Dean muttered, hands on his shoulders to keep him upright. "You need to take it easy, okay? You don't want to have to go to the hospital, do you?"

Sam certainly did _not_ want to go to a hospital, because that would just freak Dean out even more. Dean had been through too much this year, and Sam had already asked too much, and right now he just wanted to wipe that look off his brother's face.

But he was tired and sore and he was pretty sure he could sleep for about twelve hours straight and never know the difference.

"Come on," Dean said, nudging him slightly, and Sam realized he had his eyes closed. "Let's get you back to the motel."

Sam, for his part, was too tired to disagree.

-o-

Dean had many reasons to wish that his brother was smaller. It would be far easier to boss him around, far easier to tease him, far easier to force him into submission when the situation warranted it.

The main reason, though, right now anyway, was that Sam was semi-conscious at best, and manhandling his brother across the grounds of the Weiland property was cumbersome and difficult and they both nearly ended up in the grass more times than Dean could count.

He grumbled the entire time, though he wasn't really angry. At least not at Sam. The entire evening had been a lesson in frustration and fear, but, if he was being honest, all he really felt was relief.

Sam was alive, next to him.

It had only been twenty minutes since he'd found Sam hanged.

He tried not to shudder--there was no need to alert his brother to how much that had frightened him. Sam needed his rest, and that was the least Dean could do after leaving him alone to be attacked and nearly killed.

When they finally made it back to the car, Dean was panting and sweating through his shirt. Sam was still a little cold, shivering slightly, and when Dean lowered him to the seat, he blinked lazily up at him.

Sam's mouth opened and his eyes studied him earnestly. "'s not your fault," Sam said, well, rasped really.

Dean winced so badly at the sound of Sam's voice that he barely heard the words. "Sam, stop worrying about me, okay? We need to get you taken care of."

Sam looked like he wanted to protest, but, luckily for Dean, Sam didn't have the strength to back up his stubbornness in this instance. Instead Sam's eyes blinked slower, his head dipping to the side. Dean laid a cautionary hand on Sam's chest, just to make sure his breathing wasn't too strained. Then he buckled Sam in, checked his arms and closed Sam's door.

He took a deep steadying breath before moving to the driver's side.

Once behind the wheel, Dean started the car, noting that the rumbling of the engine didn't even make Sam stir. He'd have to keep on eye on that--he didn't want his brother to suffer from his neglect again.

Because that was what had caused this. Sam had wanted to go, and instead Dean had wanted to enjoy his night. He'd left Sam alone and vulnerable and this was the penance he would pay.

Gulping, he gripped the wheel, driving as carefully as he could. He was reckless enough as it was.

At the motel, Dean checked them out and cleared out the room while Sam slept on. He figured it was probably safe to stay the night, but that wasn't a chance he was willing to take. He wanted to get them on the other side of the river, just in case their little friends realized that they hadn't quite been successful in their lynching.

Sam stirred as he settled back into the seat. Something garbled came out of Sam's mouth. Dean placed a gentle hand on his brother's chest once more. "Just go back to sleep, okay?" he coaxed.

Sam, obedient for once, drooped again, and Dean began his drive across town.

-o-

The night was long, longer because Dean refused to let himself sleep. If he wasn't going to indulge in a hospital, he'd have to monitor Sam himself.

Sam had been coherent enough to walk into the motel room, but out of it enough to let Dean tuck him in. Dean would have used it as fodder had the situation not been what it was. Sam's body was recovering from a real trauma, a trauma that Dean could not shirk responsibility for.

Therefore, he readily abdicated all rights to gloating and teasing. Not that he could bring himself to think it anyway. Because whenever he closed his eyes, he could still see Sam suspended from that tree.

It was hard to forget, so he busied himself making sure Sam was okay. He checked Sam's breathing, making sure it was unhindered and clean.

He sighed, settling on the opposite bed. Sam was still beneath the covers, rolled onto his side so he was facing Dean. Sam had nearly passed out flat on his back, but Dean had coaxed the kid onto his side in order to aid Sam's breathing. Sam could chide him for mother-henning all he wanted; Dean had taken too many risks.

As it was, he could see the rise and fall of Sam's chest in the dimness, which was a reassuring rhythm. He watched a little TV, the sound on mute, checking on Sam more often than not.

Sam didn't stir, just slept on as the bruises darkened on his face and neck. He could clean Sam off, he figured, but he didn't want to risk waking him. Surely his brother could use the sleep. Sam started running a small fever a few hours in, but nothing too worrisome, at least not yet.

By dawn, Sam's breathing had evened out, and Dean felt himself relax marginally. They had been lucky--this time. Sam would be fine. Sam had been beaten and hanged and abandoned, but Sam would be fine. Dean just had to be sure to keep it that way.

-o-

Sam came to wakefulness slowly, lingering just above it with a blessed detachedness. Distantly, something hurt, an odd, uncomfortable sensation that bothered him, but not enough to wake him.

It was, however, the pressure in his bladder that broke through his awareness, demanding his attention as he blinked awake.

When he came awake, however, it was the pain he noticed, grating and intense, throughout his chest and throat. He winced, hoping to contain his moan of pain.

It wasn't like he was unfamiliar with neck injuries--the shifter in St. Louis and the poltergeist in Lawrence had left him sore and strained for days. But neither of those compared to this. Not to mention the chest pain--

He swallowed reflexively. Chest pain. That meant...

No wonder Dean looked so freaked. A little mouth to mouth resuscitation was traumatic under any circumstances, and Dean had undoubtedly cut him down from a tree most certainly dead and brought him back to life.

Sitting up, he glanced over at his brother, who looked like he had passed out on the other bed. He'd need to find some way to make it up to him.

His bladder twinged again with the movement and Sam realized he needed to book it to the bathroom unless he wanted to bear the humiliation of wetting the sheets.

Resolving himself, he pushed the covers back and put his legs over the edge of the bed. The wave of vertigo that swept over him was nauseating and when it abated, it left searing pain in its wake. Sam squeezed his eyes shut and tried to breathe through it.

Maybe wetting himself was sounding like a better option all the time.

He could always ask Dean for help.

Looking up, he saw his brother again. Even in sleep, Dean looked exhausted. He hadn't even gotten under the covers last night, no doubt because he'd spent most of it hovering over Sam.

The least he could do for his brother was go to the bathroom by himself.

Mind made up, he pushed upwards. He made it to his feet before pain erupted once again and his breath died, strangled in his throat, setting off a string of coughing that had him curling over back to the bed.

So much for keeping it quiet.

Sam couldn't hear much beyond the coughing and the pain that rang deep in his ears, but he certainly felt his brother's hand on his arm, supporting and concerned.

"Sammy? Sammy, just breathe through it," Dean said, and as much as Sam was loathe to, he attempted to obey.

It took a minute, an achingly painful minute, but soon Sam's coughs subsided, and his chest heaved in deep and steady breaths.

"Dude, what were you thinking?" Dean finally asked.

Sam peered up at him through his bangs, feeling more than a little humiliated. "That I had to go to the bathroom."

"It's called asking for help," Dean told him pointedly before getting up and moving to the other bed. He sat down and tried to look Sam in the eyes. "You need to take it easy. You're lucky I didn't haul your ass down the hospital."

"I just had to go to the bathroom, Dean," Sam snipped, his irritation a reflexive response to Dean's parental tone. "It's not a big deal."

"Yeah, well, I just cut you down from a tree last night, so I think it is a big deal," Dean snapped back.

Sam winced, and his annoyance vanished. Behind Dean's frustration, Sam could hear the fear. "Dean--"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Don't get all sappy on me here, Sammy," he said. "What happened, happened."

Whether Dean realized it or not, they needed to talk about this. "Dean, I'm sorry--"

Dean recoiled a little. "You're sorry?" His tone was incredulous. "Sam, this wasn't your fault."

"And it sure as hell wasn't yours," Sam countered.

Dean's eyes fell and Sam could see him stiffen.

"What happened anyway?" Sam asked softly. Thoughts of using the bathroom went to the back-burner--his brother's misplaced sense of guilt was a bit more important.

Dean's jaw worked. "Apparently Gregor wasn't the only active spirit on the Weiland property. It was Abraham who was a bit of a vigilante in his free time. He's the one who killed his brother, his entire posse backed him up. When he was finally brought to justice himself, his entire gang vowed to be with him until the end. Apparently even in death. They were buried together."

"And they didn't like us burning Abraham," Sam concluded with a shake of his head. "So the posse is out there looking for justice now?"

"Seems that way."

Sam let out a slow breath. "Looks like we've got our work cut out for us."

"Not _we_ this time, Sammy," Dean said. "You need your rest."

"Dean--"

"Sam, I'm serious. I almost got you killed in the first place, and I'm not about to let you--"

"You're not responsible for this," Sam insisted, his annoyance flaring again.

Dean, however, was persistent. "If I hadn't left you alone--"

"Then they would have hanged us both."

"You wanted to leave," Dean said, shaking his head vehemently. "I should have listened to you."

"Dean, you_ never_ listen to me," Sam said. "Why should now be any different?"

"Because I have to save you!" Dean exploded suddenly, pounding his fist into the pillow. He stood, stalking away, his anger simmering. "I promised you."

Sam stared, a bit shocked.

"It's my _job_ to keep you safe," Dean finally continued, his voice quiet.

The guilt in Dean's voice was overwhelming. The burden, nearly insurmountable. And that was Sam's fault, Sam's fault for asking so much of his brother. Sam's fault for needing so much.

He had to fix that. Now, before it drove them both into the ground. "You can't control everything," he said finally. "That's why I asked you to promise me in the first place. It's why I wanted to believe in something greater. Because not everything is in our control, and you can't live like it is because it'll kill you."

Dean turned away, his eyes shining with emotion. "It's my responsibility."

"That's crap, Dean, and you have to get that through you head," Sam said. "We have to do this together, or not at all."

Dean shook his head, still refusing to look at Sam.

"Well, since doing our own thing has worked so well for us in the past," Sam commented snidely. That was a fact neither could dispute. Sam leaving for college, Dean keeping the secret from him, Sam leaving him to figure it out on his own--all those choices, those separations, had led them to this. "We need each other, and this attitude that we can do it alone or that we hold all the cards is _exactly_ what the Demon can use against us, and you know it."

At that, Dean's shoulders sagged. "You scared me last night," he said. "I never want to do that again."

Sam rubbed absently at his throat. "Yeah, well, it's not exactly high on my list of things to do again, either."

Dean glanced at him, laughing a little. "I thought you were over this neck thing of yours."

Sam snorted a little. "Yeah, well, I hate to leave you _hanging _for an answer," Sam quipped, "but I really need to go to the bathroom."

Shakily Sam pushed himself up, and Dean moved to his side, lending a supporting hand while Sam got his bearings.

When Sam felt stable, he smiled at his brother. "Thanks, man," he said. "For everything."

Dean smirked a little, letting go. "Yeah," he said. "You too."

_end_


End file.
